


Little Child of Snow

by erwneoten



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: A little bit of angst, And then a bit of Mid-S2, Bedtime Stories, Dadcula, Family Feels, Gen, I Love Monster Boy Feels, Kid!Alucard, Mostly Fluff, OT3 hints, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 20:32:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16647290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erwneoten/pseuds/erwneoten
Summary: “Are there witches?” Adrian asked. “Or dragons? Is it a story about you, when you were young, Father?” Those were always the best, and the bloodiest, and Mother always scolded them when she found out.But Father only laughed. “No such luck, Adrian-- it is only a story about a little girl, long ago and far, far to the north.” And Father cleared his throat and stiffened his back, and began to tell the tale.(Alucard recalls a fairy tale his father told him, once.)





	Little Child of Snow

Snow fell heavily outside Adrian’s bedroom window, and Father’s presence always seemed to dim the glow of the fire, send a chill through the room (something Mother chided him endlessly for, much to her vampire husband and dhampir son’s amusement).

Adrian didn’t mind-- he felt the cold far less keenly than Mother did, and was nestled tight in his blankets besides. And it set a thrilling mood, for Father’s stories were always older, darker, stolen from faraway lands where Adrian half-suspected he’d witnessed them himself.

More often it was Mother at his bedside, and more often she came with almanacs and atlases and star charts than storybooks. When she did bring storybooks, they were always about animals getting up to some mischief, and they always had obvious lessons, which he privately scoffed at as he’d gotten older.

He was a bit too old now for such books, always stubbornly asking probing questions with the hopes of poking holes in her tales, but Father’s still held his interest. Father never needed to read from a book, anyway.

“Adrian.” Father inclined his head cordially as he sat beside the bed.

“Father.” Adrian mimicked the motion, doing his best to sound formal and adult-like. Father’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, and Adrian felt a swell of pride in his chest. It was a game they often played-- Father always said it was important for Adrian to practice his courtly manners.

“Your mother has decided to stay in the village until the snows break, to help those afflicted by the cold,” said Father, with a glance towards the window. Adrian was old enough now that he noticed how weary his father looked whenever his mother was away from the castle. He was not yet allowed to go to the village with her, curious as he was. “And so I have chosen a particular tale for you tonight, my boy.”

Adrian could feel his eyes go wide with excitement. “Are there witches?” he asked. “Or dragons? Is it a story about you, when you were young, Father?” Those were always the best, and the bloodiest, and Mother always scolded them when she found out.

But Father only laughed. “No such luck, Adrian-- it is only a story about a little girl, long ago and far, far to the north.” And Father cleared his throat and stiffened his back, and began to tell the tale.

“Once upon a time, in a poor village in the bitter arctic lands, a man and a woman wanted desperately for a child, but despaired that they could not make one naturally.” Were it Mother telling the story, Adrian might have interrupted her to ask why-- or if he felt particularly daring, how-- but Father had an imperious voice that demanded a quiet audience.

“There, the snows fall eight months out of the year. And so one day, in her loneliness, the woman piled up snow in the shape of a girl, to pretend she had a daughter. That night, before she went to bed, she wished with all the love in her heart that the girl would come to life.”

“Is this a _love_ story?” Adrian whined before he could stop himself, but Father only laughed again.

“Is my little Adrian too good for love stories?”

“...no, but…” But he had hoped for more blood.

“It is not so exciting as some of my stories--” Adrian could feel his shoulders droop, and Father rested a gentle hand on one of them. “--but it is important for you to hear, now that you are old enough.”

That caught Adrian’s attention quickly, and he straightened to continue listening.

“When the man and woman awoke that morning, they awoke to a miracle-- in the snowbank lay a girl, a daughter to call their own. The brought her inside and showered her with adoration as any parent would, and they gave her the name Snegurka--”

Adrian stifled a snicker-snort.

“--which meant _‘little child of snow’_ , in their language.” Father was withholding a smirk. “Do you find that funny? I imagine they would think Adrian to be a very silly name indeed.”

“Would they think _Dracula_ is a silly name?” Adrian retorted, unable to hide his giggles any longer.

Father’s smirk deepened wickedly. “Even in the frozen wastes, they know the name _Dracula_.” And he continued his tale.

“Snegurka-- I see that smile, boy-- was the most wonderful daughter the man and woman could have asked for, and they loved her very much. She was polite and courteous, she did many chores around the house, and she always listened to her parents.”

Adrian stuck out his tongue. “Is _that_ why you wanted to tell me this story?”

“You _could_ stand to be a better listener,” Father chuckled. “But Snegurka was also very curious, and it led her once to disobey her parents.”

“Her parents had forbidden her from straying too far from their home, for they were afraid the rest of their village might not understand their daughter made of snow. But Snegurka, enchanted by the thought of people so alike her, and yet so different, wandered away while her mother was gathering herbs, and went to the village square. It was there that she met a handsome shepherd boy--”

“This _is_ a love story!” Adrian groaned, but Father hushed him before he could complain more.

“The shepherd boy was kind and handsome, and Snegurka liked him very much--” Father eyed him, daring him to speak up again, and he didn’t. “--but try as she might, she could not love him, for she was too cold. She ran home, distraught, to seek her parents’ help.”

“ _‘Snegurka, my beloved daughter,’_ her father said, _‘Your heart is made of snow, it cannot love like one of flesh and bone.’_ But her mother countered, _‘It was my love for you that brought you to life. If you truly wished it, we could will you a heart that could truly love. But you must choose-- do you wish to be made of flesh and bone, or made of snow?’”_

“With nothing but the shepherd boy in her mind, Snegurka chose to be able to love. And that night, weeping, her mother wished with all the love in her heart for it to be so.”

“Why was she weeping?” Adrian asked, more tense than he’d realized.

Father answered solemnly, “Because she knew that the warmth of a heart that could truly love would be too much for her little child of snow. And that morning, when Snegurka saw the shepherd boy, her heart filled with love and she melted away.”

 

After the story, Father cast his long gaze out the window, and Adrian joined him, watching the snow quietly fall, no sound between them-- not breath, not beating heart, just the faint howl of the wind and the crackling of the fire, burning low.

If Mother were here, she would laugh and call them her gargoyles, for he and his father could stare like statues for hours until she came up to ruffle their hair, plant kisses on their cheeks. _The two of you are so alike_ , he could almost hear her say, and his father’s reply, _Yes, but Lisa, he has your warmth in his eyes._ Adrian always wondered how eyes could be warm, but sometimes when his mother smiled he thought he understood.

“My boy,” Father said at great length, and Adrian tore his attention away from the gale. “There may come a time when you will have to choose whether you are made of flesh and bone, or made of snow.”

Adrian looked up at his father, confused, trying to decide if there was a hidden riddle in his words that he did not understand. “...but, Father, I _am_ made of flesh and bone.”

Father chuckled, and tucked a strand of golden hair behind Adrian’s pointed ear. “Yes, but you are also made of snow. And of ice, and of stone.” _Like a gargoyle_ , Adrian thought. “It is a line you may be able to walk for a while, if you are clever-- and you are--”

He smiled, sheepishly, and Father returned the smile before continuing, though something weary still lurked behind his eyes, “--but it is a difficult thing, to be so alike to everyone, and yet so different.”

Adrian kept quiet for a while, mulling the story over in his head while the snow beat on against his window. But Father was ever-patient, hands folded neatly on the bedspread, staring into the embers of the fire.

“If I choose to be made of snow,” he ventured, after a time, “does that mean I won’t be able to love, not truly? And if I choose to be made of flesh and bone, does that mean I’ll melt away?”

Father rested a hand upon his shoulder, and leaned in to kiss the top of his head. “You are not a little girl in a story, are you? You are a dhampir, and my son besides. And I believe it’s high time that you go to bed.”

 

Years later, as he sits in a snowy mountain pass, tending the campfire while Sypha and Belmont sleep huddled together to shield away the cold, Alucard (for Adrian is a name long lost to grief, and he has since resigned himself to his fate as his father’s shadow) finds himself remembering that story.

Though Sypha had put up a polite protest, she’d quickly acquiesced-- they’ve been on the road for days without stopping, and she had needed the rest badly. Belmont, the oaf, had of course agreed immediately, and so they made their bed whilst he made a fire and a place to sit on the frozen ground.

But it’s alright-- Alucard has never keenly felt the cold and the older he gets the better he is able to ignore it, and so he is of more use here, keeping watch and keeping the fire burning, than he would be lying beside them, siphoning their precious little warmth.

Snow begins to fall, dainty little crystals dusting the fall of his hair and turning to steam above the fire, and he wonders if he’s yet made his choice.

They are both human, Sypha and Belmont-- Trevor-- They are flesh and bone with beating hearts and skin that warms against the night chill and he… well, he is still and cold as stone, perched like a gargoyle on the ice. A boy made of snow.

They can love. Even Trevor, broken as he is, loves with a ferocity like fire. And Sypha’s love, bright and full of hope, is a candle against the darkness.

Everything Alucard has tried to love has turned to ash.

Back in the wagon, Belmont begins to snore and Sypha kicks him audibly in her sleep. Alucard, snapped out of his pontification, has to laugh as a warmth wells in his chest like embers flaring in a hearth, as some wetness that is not snow mists in his eyes.

 _I am not a little girl in a story_ , he thinks to himself. _I will not melt away. I am Dracula’s son, for whatever little that’s worth. And someday, it will be my turn to rest._

**Author's Note:**

> Hello I love sad vampires in love and also comments ;; <3


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